“I do not refer to Dashwood’s gatherings or Lord Byron’s recent attempt,” the colonel managed to say. He was clearly disturbed by my blithe knowledge of depraved clubs but had rallied. “No, the club that Sanderson belonged to was much worse. Much worse indeed. They called themselves the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin but I do not know if it still continues today. I do not wish to know.”

Rack and ruin—both slang words for cheap liquor. A juvenile name, but then there were many ridiculously named clubs in London: the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks and the Most Ancient and Most Puissant Order of the Beggar’s Benison and Merryland to name two.

“What do you mean, worse than Dashwood’s club?” my sister asked, beating me to the question. “What can be worse than black sacraments and group congress?”

The colonel and I stared at Julia. The colonel, I think, shocked by the idea that Lady Julia Colebrook had just uttered the words group congress, and I because I had not expected my sister to have any knowledge of the Hellfire Club’s activities. Perhaps she had found the same article that I had in our father’s library.

The colonel was moved to a one-word answer. “Justine.”

I was blank for a moment, then realized he meant the Marquis de Sade’s novel. My good friend Charlotte, Lady Davenport, had lent me her French copy when it made its way across the channel in the brief truce of 1802. It had been eye-opening to say the least, and I did not find it a wonder that Bonaparte had imprisoned its author. “Are you saying the club dealt in torture? In sexual torture?” I asked. At the periphery of my vision, I saw Julia turn to stare at me in return. I had never told her I had read the book—in her eyes, just reading it would put my soul in danger.

“I never attended,” the colonel said hurriedly, “but it was what Sanderson implied. And I could readily believe such activities would suit his tastes.”

Did this club have some sort of connection to Sanderson’s death? If he had indeed dabbled in the darkest recesses of the human heart, then perhaps he had made dark enemies along the way.

“And you have no idea of its whereabouts or if it still continues?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Please, search your memory, it may be important,” I pressed. “Even a member’s name from twenty years ago might help.”

“I think it was near Covent Garden, behind St. Paul’s, and I know of only one other member, but his name will not help you. He is probably dead by now.”

“Even so,” I said.

The colonel shrugged. “Lord Evan Belford.”

I stared at him. “What?”

He eyed my shock. “Were you acquainted with him?”

“Only in passing,” Julia interjected, for I could not make a sound.